


The Evolution Of Belief

by emotionally_inept_teen_in_a_box



Series: a million possibilities, mon chéri [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, I'm not actually a bad person, Post-Reichenbach, Sad, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 03:52:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7742269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionally_inept_teen_in_a_box/pseuds/emotionally_inept_teen_in_a_box
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a lot to drag a soldier from his cause, but time is the strongest foe and John Watson is only one man. Even so, he puts up one hell of a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Evolution Of Belief

**Author's Note:**

> In case you didn't read the tags, this is going to be sad. If you're not into angst, reading this is probably a bad idea. I posted it on a tumblr account that I no longer use- but I liked this fic, so why not make it my debut piece?

 

Hours after Sherlock falls, John is still at the flat- rummaging through old case files and behind dusty bookshelves, any clues to help him figure out what the hell happened to Sherlock. Because there’s no way in hell that he’s dead. Not him. The great Sherlock Holmes dies, guns blazing, in the thrill of the chase-he doesn’t kill himself. John refuses to let the tears fall, because he knows what Sherlock would think of that. The corners of his lips twitch as he thinks of what condescending remark his friend would have in response to him in this moment. He’d probably tell him that he was doing it all wrong, that his methods were sloppy at best. The doctor can’t wait to see Sherlock’s face when he comes home to find his experiments tampered with.

Days after Sherlock’s fall, and John is still trying to contact Mycroft. The bloody git hasn’t been picking up his phone and John needs to see Sherlock right now. He’ll probably be forced to call in old favours from his army days at this rate, and he’s beginning to worry about Sherlock. Has he eaten since the whole charade had started? Was he alright? Was Moriarty truly gone? Did he care that he was putting John through hell? He pushes that last thought right to the back of his mind and tells it to bloody stay there, this is Sherlock, of course he doesn’t care- but that’s what makes him even more Sherlock.

A month has passed, and the doubts are beginning to trickle in. Sherlock still hasn’t contacted him and his mind has begun to wander into darker avenues. He goes to work in the mornings only to receive pitying glances and an aspirin from Sarah, another person who has been fooled into thinking that Sherlock has truly gone. John can sit at home for hours now, just staring out of the window, and waiting. The nightmares have started again; but this time they’re not of he war, his subconscious instead choosing to replay the fall over and over. Sometimes, instead of Sherlock jumping, Moriarty is pushing him over the edge. Sometimes John manages to grab Sherlock, only for the detective to slip away, his face the picture of betrayal.

A year has passed, and John has stopped searching. The nightmares are so frequent that he’s gone to back to his therapist, who tells him that it’s PTSD again. He stops going to the meetings soon after that. At the clinic he meets a woman named Mary, she’s got the same sort of dry wit that Sherlock had- no, that Sherlock has. Her eyes aren’t quite the same shade of blue however, and there’s no real adventure with her. He hasn’t told her that he thinks Sherlock is still alive, how can he? She’d just scoff and tell him that he’s delusional, or even worse, give him the kind of pitying looks one would give to a homeless man begging for change. At this point, he’s not really living at all, just going through the motions.

Every military coat he sees is like a stab to the heart and he can’t even smoke a bloody cigarette without feeling nostalgic. He’s moved out of Baker Street because it’s simply too much to bear, despite all Mrs Hudson’s protests. Life goes on, in a way, but John’s has been torn apart and then been given a sliver of tape to repair the damage.

Eighteen months. That’s how long Sherlock has been dead. Because John has lost hope, the great soldier has seen at last the error of his ways. Him and Mary aren’t unhappy as such, well, at least she’s not unhappy. He’s spending his days seeing high cheekbones and Cupid bow lips on anyone that so happens to have dark hair. His gun lies on the mantelpiece, unused, and he is oh so tempted to just pull the trigger. _It would all be over faster_ , the nasty little voice in his head reasons, _and it’s not like anyone would truly miss you_.

Eighteen months and four days after the fall, and John has just had an argument with Mary. She’s been nagging at him about their future, and the she just has to go and say it.

“You love a dead man more than you ever loved me! Why don’t you just go and bloody join him then?”

Her face moulds into an expression of remorse, but the damage is done. He decides in that moment that that’s exactly what he’s going to do, it’s only a matter of when.

Nineteen months after the fall, and John Watson is sitting in his old armchair, seconds away from killing himself. He’s made sure to say goodbye to all the family, even Harry, who hasn’t spoken to in years. He’s done up his will and made sure that Inspector Lestrade receives enough money to make up for the damages Sherlock caused on their many cases together, hopefully he’ll appreciate the sentiment.  
He pulls the gun up to his head and just before he pulls the trigger, John Watson whispers to nobody in particular,

“I still love you, Sherlock Holmes. Until we meet again, you beautiful fool.”

  
Nineteen months after Sherlock Holmes falls, John Watson finally admits that he fell far before that- that he fell in love. But it’s far too late now.


End file.
